


A Feast For the Eyes

by batgurl88



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Community: kinkme_merlin, Food, Humor, Kink Meme, M/M, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-25
Updated: 2010-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batgurl88/pseuds/batgurl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur eats too much at a feast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Feast For the Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to kinkme_merlin for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/2936.html?thread=1011576#t1011576): "Arthur/Merlin - weight gain...". Beta’d by penelopesfriend

"I want you to kill me," Arthur groaned.

Sighing wearily, Merlin pushed open the door to Arthur's chambers, one arm still supporting the prince. He kicked the door closed behind them as they shuffled inside.

"Surely it's not that bad," he said, rolling his eyes.

Arthur begged to differ. He moaned again, one hand resting against his tender stomach. "It feels like I'm going to explode. Why did you let me eat so much?"

" _Me?_ " Merlin said, incredulous. "Since when did keeping you from stuffing your royal face become my responsibility?"

"You're my servant," Arthur replied imperiously, wincing as they made their way around the table. His stomach really did feel terrible. "Your responsibilities are whatever I make them."

Groaning again, he collapsed onto the bed, too uncomfortable to even fathom the task of undressing. He tossed his head from side to side theatrically, unable to find a comfortable position. What on earth had possessed him to have that last helping of roasted pheasant?

He watched as Merlin immediately went about his nightly tasks of clearing the floor of discarded clothes and stoking the fire. Frowning at his servant's apparent lack of interest in his plight, he shifted on the bed, loudly moaning his displeasure.

Merlin looked up from dousing a candle.

"It's your brave determination in the face of suffering that really instils me with confidence in your ability as future ruler," he commented dryly, rolling his eyes.

Arthur glared half-heartedly. "Have you forgotten that I can have you thrown in the stocks any time I feel like it?"

Smirking, Merlin moved to douse the candle beside Arthur's bed. "I think you'd have to be able to walk of your own accord to do that."

The prince scoffed, in too much discomfort to continue with their banter. He shut his eyes, his eyebrows creased as his stomach gave an unpleasant gurgle.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his midsection, soft and comforting. Arthur's frown lessened as Merlin began rubbing his aching stomach in slow, soothing circles.

"Feel better?" Merlin asked quietly.

Arthur stifled another moan. Yes, as a matter of fact, it did. Merlin's hand was firm but reassuring, the ache in his stomach reduced to a dull memory beneath his ministrations. "It's... all right," he admitted grudgingly, his eyes still closed.

They continued like that in silence for another few minutes, no sound but their steady breathing in the near-darkness. All too soon, Merlin pulled his hand away, leaving Arthur missing its warmth. His mouth tightened as he pushed down his sudden disappointment.

"Remember you have training with the knights first thing tomorrow," Merlin said quietly, dousing the last candle.

He left, the door closing softly behind him, and Arthur slept more soundly than he had in weeks.

*

Sir Gleason was quite possibly the most boring conversationalist in all of Albion. Though a brave and fearless knight, everyone who attended the royal feasts dreaded being sat next to him for any length of time. Unfortunately for Arthur, his position as leader of the knights of Camelot afforded him that unpleasant task more often than he would have liked.

"But one does often wonder if such matters are in a country's best interest," Sir Gleason said, his voice as dry as the books in Geoffrey’s personal collections. "Such a thing can reflect badly on the nobility itself. Wouldn't you agree, sire?"

Arthur nodded dully as he took another bite of his meal, hoping it looked like he was listening. Once, he might have tried to respond, steering the conversation to more interesting grounds such as hunting or the day's training, but he'd long since learned that such encouragement only gave the knight the mistaken belief that his discourse on the crops of Mercia was welcome. The trick was to say as little as possible, and this was best accomplished by making oneself appear preoccupied with the task of eating whenever Sir Gleason attempted to engage one in conversation.

Morgana was smirking in his direction - she had been next to the dreary knight at the last great feast and had been forced to fake a dizzy spell shortly after the second course.

The prince rolled his eyes, wondering if it were possible to lob a tart at her without his father noticing. Given that the king was seated between them, it seemed unlikely.

Arthur sighed, drowning out Sir Gleason's dissertation on the best way to go about distributing a census. He eyed the plate of meat pies in front of him with interest, carefully nabbing himself another large helping. No one raised an eyebrow at the prince showing a hearty appetite, nor should they - he was well within his rights to eat as many courses as he wished, and if it meant he had an excuse to ignore his tablemate's bone-dry attempts at conversation, then that was merely a happy side-effect.

"More wine, sire?"

He could hear the smirk in Merlin's voice - the little idiot was revelling in his misery. Scowling, he held his goblet up impatiently, trying to ignore his manservant's barely-restrained sniggering as Gleason continued to drone on about proper counting procedures. His goblet full, Arthur stoically helped himself to yet another meat pie, silently planning all manner of retribution in terms of Merlin's workload for the following day.

The smirk was still in place later that evening as Merlin once again helped Arthur to his chambers. The fourth helping of pie had been painful, but fully worth the distraction from Sir Gleason's monologue on crop rotation.

"I'm fairly certain it's treason to snigger at your prince's pain," Arthur growled.

Merlin smiled amusedly. "And _I'm_ fairly certain it's fair game to laugh when the prince in question tries to stuff three treacle tarts in his mouth to avoid talking about the average rainfall in Camelot," he said.

Arthur rolled his eyes, his hand resting lightly on his stomach as it gave a discontented rumble.

"It was only _two_ tarts, and they were small ones," he replied tartly. "You make it sound as though I were gorging myself."

Merlin wisely chose not to respond, pushing open the chamber doors.

Groaning loudly, Arthur collapsed onto the bed, making sure to wiggle his feet about and be a general pain as Merlin struggled to remove his boots. Served him right.

The task of undressing complete, Arthur shifted on the bed, stopping immediately as his stomach roiled in protest. As delicious a meal as it had been going down, he didn't relish seeing it again anytime soon.

Merlin doused the candle beside the bed and turned to go, restraining a yawn. "Goodnight, sire."

" _Mer_ lin, aren't you forgetting something?"

Arthur looked up at Merlin expectantly, glaring as his manservant merely blinked, confused.

"Well? I haven't got all night."

It took a minute for it to sink in, Merlin's eyebrows rising in surprise, though Arthur's expression warned him not to comment.

The bed dipped slightly as he sat down, his hand rising to rub large circles against Arthur's stomach, warming the skin beneath his tunic.

Arthur let his eyes fall closed, the pain in his midsection lessening with each passing second. The only sounds that could be heard were that of Merlin's steady breathing, mingled with the small sighs of pleasure the prince would never admit to making.

When Merlin finally rose to see himself back to his own room, Arthur felt a small frown crease his brow, his chambers feeling that much colder.

*

"Really, Arthur, how can you still be hungry?"

Arthur glanced up from his third serving of gilded chicken to glare at Morgana, annoyed. "Some of us have more than just embroidery to occupy our time. I put in a full day's training - I simply worked up an appetite."

Morgana's lip curled in disgust as he tore into the meat, and she gently pushed her half-empty plate away.

"How _are_ the new knights progressing, Arthur?" Uther asked, leaning back in his chair as a servant moved to take away his empty plate.

"Sir Belvedere is coming along nicely," Arthur answered, swallowing a mouthful of chicken as he signalled Merlin for another refill. "Sir Harmond is not nearly as far progressed, but he's dedicated, and I'm confident he'll make us proud in the upcoming tournament."

Uther seemed pleased, inquiring further about the tourney preparations. Arthur replied evenly, keeping his answers short and to-the-point as he began to work his way through his fig stew, though he was uncomfortably aware of Morgana's perceptive gaze still watching him.

*

Arthur scowled - he was due at knight's practice in half an hour, and there was still no sign of Merlin. The lazy sod had complained of being tired the evening before, but that was no excuse for him to sleep through his duties.

Cursing Merlin's name and plotting to make a huge mess of his chambers later as punishment, the prince stalked to his cupboard, grabbing his training clothes. Despite whatever Morgana thought, he was not incapable of dressing himself if the occasion called for it.

Starting to pull on his breeches, he frowned. The leggings had always been fitted, having been tailored exactly to his size, but now they felt stretched and almost uncomfortably tight around his thighs and midsection.

Arthur's scowl deepened - the laundresses would hear a few choice words from him about ruining his good pair of breeches - as he yanked hard on the laces to tie them. The breeches were still a bit snug, but they'd stay closed, at any rate. No chance of any embarrassing accidents on the training field.

He made a mental note to have Merlin send for the palace tailor to get them refitted, before stalking out of his chambers.

*

The feast for Lord Bayard and his retinue was one of the grandest Camelot had seen in some time, Uther being eager to show off the wealth of the land to his fellow noble and occasional enemy. Already, the formal meetings and tributes had been dispersed with, and now both parties were free to enjoy the magnificent meal the kitchens had spent the last three days and nights preparing.

Arthur was running late, and though he knew there was little chance of the feast starting without him, he'd rather not face his father's disappointment for embarrassing the house of Pendragon in front of their guests. He'd been forced to rely on a random servant to help him prepare, Merlin having once again disappeared to places unknown. If the idiot thought hiding would get him out of wearing the official ceremonial robes, he had another thing coming.

Making his way down the hallway at a faster-than-was-proper pace, he slowed at the sound of two men talking. It would do no good for the prince of Camelot to be seen running around his own castle in such a manner. Glancing around the corner, he spotted two of the Mercian delegates, their words making him pause.

"I still can't believe the state of the prince since we saw him last," Lord Agravaine chortled. "What have they been feeding him?"

The other lord chuckled. "At least we know Camelot isn't likely to go back on the treaty due to a food shortage. I imagine there's more than enough to go around, judging from the size of him."

Arthur felt his face redden, the urge to challenge the men for their insults tampered only by the need for Mercia's good will for the survival of the treaty.

The two men carried on towards the doors of the great hall, unaware of their royal eavesdropper. Lord Agravaine's companion gave him a friendly clap on the back. "Come on. Best get to the feast before Prince Arthur eats it all," he laughed.

Insulted and confused, it was only the growing sounds of restlessness from the direction of the great hall that broke through the haze of his injured pride to remind Arthur of his tardiness. Smoothing his face to be expressionless, he made his way into the banquet, managing to look vaguely contrite at his father's disapproving glare.

The speeches were quickly dispensed with, Uther and Bayard once again offering their good will to each others' respective lands. The richness of the feast was lost on Arthur as he stared sullenly at the food on his plate, the lords' words from before rattling around in his head.

"Is the food not to your tastes?" his father inquired idly, quietly enough that their guests would not overhear.

Arthur straightened, trying hard to look like the regal prince he was. "It's a fine meal," he hedged, making his expression neutral once more. "But I'm afraid I just don't find myself with much of an appetite this evening."

Uther nodded his understanding, looking inexplicably pleased as he reached for his goblet. "I'm glad to see you being more prudent in your eating habits," he commented blithely, taking a sip of wine. "It wouldn't do to let yourself go much more than you have. Camelot needs a prince in peak physical condition."

Arthur stiffened at his words, but managed to push out a stilted, "Of course, Father."

It seemed the king had no further wish to dwell on the subject, moving the topic of conversation to the security on the Northern border. Arthur hummed and nodded in all the right places, making his escape from the feast as soon as was acceptable.

He pushed open the doors to his chambers, untying his cloak as he went, his face red with embarrassment. What had they all meant? He hadn't let himself go, had he? Quickly, he stalked toward the small mirror he kept on his dresser, pulling it down to look at his reflection.

He frowned, turning his head this way and that. Sure, his face was perhaps a tad fuller than before, but his cheekbones were still the same as ever, his jaw line firm. It was... He was...

Setting the mirror back, he glanced down at himself with a stab of uncertainty. He was just as fit as before, wasn't he? He rucked his tunic up over his stomach, looking at the muscles there, his eyes widening. Had he always had that slight roundness to his midsection? Surely it hadn't sprung up out of nowhere. With a flash of horror, he remembered the tight breeches, the clothes that had seemed just a bit snug. Even now, his thighs stretched the fabric of his refitted leggings.

Letting his tunic fall back into place, Arthur flopped onto his bed, humiliated. How had this happened? He frowned. Now that he thought of it, he had been eating quite a bit more these past few weeks. He'd always had a healthy appetite, but lately it seemed as though he'd been returning from every meal stuffed. What could have made him overindulge to such a degree? Had Camelot's feasts really improved so drastically as to tempt him into this gluttony?

He turned on his back, his face heating again. He prided himself on his physical prowess, every inch of muscle earned from hours of hard training, and yet he'd become the subject of ridicule without even knowing it. How many more had whispered behind his back? And why had no one told him?

The sound of the door opening did little to stir his interest, Merlin bustling into the room with no regard for the embarrassment he was suffering. Arthur covered his face with his arm, not much feeling in the mood for interaction.

"You got out of there pretty fast, didn't you?" Merlin inquired idly, apparently ignorant of Arthur's distress. "Gwen said you just about ran down the west corridor."

The bed dipped unexpectedly as he sat, a welcome hand finding its place on Arthur's stomach. The prince shivered at the touch, a familiar warmth spreading through him. The touch had no right feeling so good - not when he wasn't writhing in agony from a sore stomach. That was the only reason he'd permitted Merlin's assistance, after all.

Arthur frowned against his forearm, tendrils of confusing pleasure radiating outward from the soothing pressure Merlin's hand provided. With a stab of horror, he realized that the one constant on each of those nights had been Merlin. Merlin, with his attentive presence, and his slow aching touch that felt good even when he didn't need it. That left him wishing it would never stop...

It wasn't the food. It was Merlin. It was Merlin all along he'd been seeking.

"It was the stewed pigeon again, wasn't it?" Merlin chattered on, oblivious to Arthur's internal struggle. "You just can't resist it, no matter how horrible it makes you feel afterward. I'm telling you, one of these days, you're going to turn into a giant pigeon, and I'll have no choice but to laugh at you," he criticized lightly, though the calming motions of his hand betrayed his teasing tone.

Arthur shook his head, still caught up in his new revelation.

"I haven't overeaten tonight," he said quietly. "I was... tired from the festivities.”

Merlin frowned, his shoulders sagging the tiniest bit. "Oh." The gentle rubbing stopped as he moved to stand up.

Arthur's hand shot out to grab his wrist, "No, don't—" He cleared his throat as Merlin's frown turned to one of confusion. "It, uh... it feels good."

It felt more than good, but he was hardly willing to admit to that, not when Merlin was regarding him so strangely. His behaviour was already less-than-becoming of a prince, his newfound weakness shaking him, but he found he could not bear the thought of losing this addictive experience now that he'd discovered it.

He looked away, uncomfortable with the way the other man was scrutinizing him, already planning his escape from the uncomfortable rejection that was sure to follow. To his surprise, however, Merlin grinned.

"Well, you could've said!"

He clambered back onto the bed, settling himself beside the perplexed prince. Reverently, he dragged a long-fingered hand down Arthur's chest before letting it slip beneath his tunic to brush against the skin there, eliciting a small gasp from Arthur.

Reading the intent in his manservant's eyes, Arthur blinked, shocked. "You mean- you—"

"I was wondering if you were ever going to catch on," Merlin said, still grinning happily, his fingers raking along the soft curve of his stomach. "Is this why you've been eating so much lately?"

"You noticed that?" Arthur asked, frowning.

"Of course I did," Merlin answered easily, shrugging. Had he been so blind to his own body that even someone as oblivious as _Merlin_ had picked up on changes he had not?

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Merlin looked down, fingering the fabric of Arthur's tunic. "It's not like it was a huge difference," he assured him. "... Besides, I thought it sort of looked good on you."

Arthur scoffed, remembering his father's words. This was certainly not a fitting appearance for a crown prince.

"I'm serious," Merlin said, his face a bit red. "Do you have any idea how hard it's been helping you get dressed and undressed all this time while trying not to get caught staring? Wanting to reach out and knowing I couldn't? Being able to touch you after the feasts has been the only way of keeping myself sane."

Arthur felt a stir of something low in his gut, even as he felt his ego begin to repair itself. He smoothed the emotions off his face, trying not to look too pleased with himself.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "I promise you won't get in trouble for touching me now."

Merlin's responding smile was bright enough to light up the castle. Shifting his position to straddle Arthur's hips, he let his fingers slide down Arthur's stomach.

"You know, there are other kinds of touching that feel good, too," he said, his hand moving lower to play with the ties of Arthur's breeches.

Arthur grinned. He planned to do plenty of touching, himself.

The end.


End file.
